Something’s very wrong I tell you!  Something’s very wrong!  Maybe I just don’t get it.  Or maybe I’m just too practical.  Or maybe I’m just too boring.  I cannot understand why some people are so gosh darn attracted to designer labels.  They yearn for the day to drive to the super market in their fancy new car with the “ewwh-ahh” hood ornament.    They insist on only wearing the grossly expensive sunglasses – even on cloudy days – for all their friends and neighbors to see.  Their handbag or wallet must be purchased exclusively from that snobby, snooty upscale boutique in the city.  Even when you join them for a drink at the bar,  they have to order the top shelf, over priced alcohol; or some exotic glass of wine that is usually accompanied by their long, boring story of the vineyard,  the grapes, and the color of the bottle.  GIMME A BREAK!!!!!!!! 

Well, that earth killing, super expensive, luxury vehicle still gets flat tires, right?  And after you’re done changing that flat tire,  those super expensive, glitzy sunglasses still break in half when you sit your fat butt on them, right?.  And that super expensive, Peruvian Leather wallet that cost you one weeks salary still gets lost like any other wallet;  laying on the side of the rain soaked, country road where you changed your super expensive flat tire, right?.  And that super expensive cocktail that you justly deserved at the end of this miserable day, didn’t taste the least bit different to you, did it? (Even though the bartender slipped the cheap stuff into it.) 

Label Lovers have always cracked me up.  Some Label Lovers genuinely believe that if they pay more, they get more.  Huh??  Whether you wear a two thousand dollar watch on your wrist or a two hundred dollar watch, they are both going to instill the exact same amount of fear into you when you glance down at them and realize that you are now one hour late for your appointment with the Internal Revenue Service auditor.   Some other Label Lovers genuinely believe that buying a designer label is a good investment.  That the product will retain it’s value longer than generic labels.  Hello??  You can go to any flea market in the country or street vendor in the city and get look-alike, knock off watches,  purses,  sunglasses, pocketbooks,  jewelry, clothing and just about anything else for a mere fraction of the original cost.  If you don’t own at least one knockoff product,  then I guarantee you that you know someone else who does.  Good investment??  Gimme a break!

Well,  I’ve got to cut this blog short.  My son reminded me that I need to take him to the shoe store to buy him a new pair of sneakers that will make him run faster and jump higher then any other sneaker on the shelf.  I can’t wait to see what these are going to cost me!  Something’s very wrong I tell you!  Something’s very wrong!

Something’s very wrong I tell you! Something’s very wrong! I just don’t get it. What am I suppose to do with all those Thank You cards; Birthday cards and Holiday cards that I receive throughout the year? What about the Get Well cards; Good Luck cards, Congratulations cards and every other occasion card that your friends and family toss in the mail to you. Don’t get me wrong. I’m always grateful when someone takes the time to select that perfect card and write a heartfelt message on it. It’s exciting to open up the envelope to see what’s inside (especially if it includes cash or check!). It’s because I am so grateful – that leads to all of my confusion. I think Hallmark should publish a book on Greeting Card etiquette? After all, we pay around five bucks for these mass produced pieces of cardboard – – they should at least include a set of instructions.

What am I suppose to do with all of these cardboard messages ‘after’ I’ve read them? I feel some sense of obligation! I can’t just throw them in the garbage, can I? That just doesn’t feel right. The sender took time out of their busy day to buy the card – to sit down and think of some wonderful and meaningful message to write – to address it – and to drive to the post office to mail it. Throwing it in my trash barrel with last nights left over fish and asparagus dinner doesn’t seem right. I just want to do the right thing here, but even Google searches fail me in this hour of need!

Should I be displaying this Hallmark greeting in some prominent spot inside my home?  How about on the front of the refrigerator door, held firmly in place by my bright yellow, pizza parlor magnet that I received absolutely free with our last takeout order?  This would be a perfect location. I would be reminded each and every time I reach in for my night time TV snacks, of just how lucky I am to have such wonderful friends. Or how about standing the card up on the fireplace mantle, in between the family photographs, and the framed picture of our upside down, sleeping Beagle? Where do you put these cards once you receive them?

I’m usually the one that opens all the mail in the house. Am I suppose to tell everyone in the family that we just received a card? Do I call my wife at work and inform her immediately? Do I text my children in college to let them know? How about if the card comes from some long lost relative you haven’t seen in years? Do I inform my extended family? Do I call Mom and tell her? Do I tell my sister? My brother? Or do I wait and tell the entire family all at once at the next big family cookout – “Hey everyone. Guess who sent me a Birthday card last week?”. I don’t think I can do that because what if I embarrass someone at the cookout who did NOT send me a birthday card or even remember that it was my birthday. I’m so confused!!!!!

What’s the rule on how long you are suppose to keep these things hanging around the house? After I read them, do I throw them away the same day? Do I toss them immediately with the rest of the junk mail, or do I wait a few hours? Do I wait a week? A month? Or do I casually lay the card on top of last nights newspaper so it is “accidentally” thrown into the trash? Usually, I just leave it on the kitchen counter for my wife to read and then proper disposal becomes her problem because after all – she was the last one to touch it.

And what about the dozens and dozens of Christmas cards that arrive at your home every year? It seems like most of these cards arrive with beautiful photographs of the family that sent them. Do I keep the families that I like and toss out the families that I don’t like? There should be a completely different set of rules for these customized, picture cards!! And what about those musical cards that sing some type of dorky song when you open it? And if receiving regular greeting cards through our traditional postal system wasn’t confusing enough, now we can receive computerized email greeting cards, complete with animated characters and musical backgrounds. AAARRGGHHH!! WHAT AM I SUPPOSE TO DO? Something’s very wrong I tell you! Something’s very wrong!

Something’s very wrong I tell you! Something’s very wrong! Have you ever been asked for your opinion? Then once you’ve given it, the person who asked for it disagrees or perhaps even argues with you. I don’t get it!! Let’s face it. No one really wants your opinion now do they? What they really want is a confirmation of what they have already decided. Instead of asking “Hey Tom, can I have your opinion on this?”, What someone really means to ask is “Hey Tom, will you agree with me on this even though deep down inside you passionately disagree and think I’m an idiot for even considering it?”.

So there I was in the paint aisle of Home Depot. My plan was quite simple. All I had to do was to buy a couple of gallons of white paint – bring them home – and get my three teenage kids begrudgingly working on painting the backyard fence that surrounds the swimming pool. If all goes well, the project should be done by 1:00PM, leaving enough time for a quick 9 holes of golf with my best buddy; all before my lovely wife and I head out for a relaxing and intimate dinner date (without kids!) at our favorite restaurant. All in all, today was certain to be a great day.

As I stood in the endless aisle of paint cans, minding my own business, and realizing that white paint actually comes in 57 shades of white, a woman about fifteen years younger than me, timidly and very politely asked what the difference was between two types of paint that she was holding. No problem I thought, as I responded with a smile and pleasant answer. A few moments later, she approached me again and asked about paint brushes. Again, I responded with a smile and a pleasant answer. And yes, just a few moments after that she approached more boldly and confidently with yet one more question about paint rollers, and yes, once again I responded with a smile and pleasant answer. After quickly checking my clothing to make sure I did not inadvertently dress in an orange apron, name tag, funny buttons, and a hat that said Paint Expert,  I began my approach to the cash register. As my new found friend realized my imminent departure, she walked briskly aside of me – gently tapped my right shoulder – and said “Could I trouble you just one more time for your opinion please?”. Oh no!!! How could she possibly ask for my opinion? What did I do wrong? How could answering three simple questions somehow justify the value of my opinion to her? All I wanted to do was buy my paint and just go home, but nnoooo, that was not going to happen today.

Before I could respond she continued with “I’m thinking about using these five different colors in one room”. Flashing cardboard paint chips in front of my eyes she continued with “This color on the fireplace wall. This color on the back wall. This color on the other two walls. This color as a ceiling border across the entire room and this color on all the woodwork. And then I want to use these stencils throughout the entire room. What do you think?”. Now I admit that I can’t match two socks and I confess that my wife has to put out my matching clothes every morning before I leave for the office. But even with my color blind disability, I clearly know that these five colors simply don’t belong together unless you are a full time birthday party clown. This woman had no desire for my honest opinion and was quite clearly seeking only a confirmation of her ‘already made’ decision. With raised eyebrows, a wide smile and an excited voice, I responded with “That’s a great idea! Those colors will look awesome together.” She seemed satisfied and I ran for the nearest exit.

After loading the back of my vehicle with my new purchases (usually much more than I went into the store for), I received a persistent tap on my driver side window.  It was once again my new girlfriend and her extremely large, husband who was shaped like a light bulb with muscles on top of his muscles. She excitedly introduced me and said “Honey, this is the nice man who helped me and loved my ideas for converting your man cave in the basement to the play room for the children!”.   With a quivering smile and sudden perspiration running down my brow,  I looked up at his black, stern eyes to hear him say “Yah, Thanks pal!”. As I sped away to a safe distance, rolling through red lights and stop signs,  my wife called the cell phone to tell me to hurry home. She needed my opinion of how she looked in the new dress she bought for our date that night. Something’s very wrong I tell you! Something’s very wrong!

Hello everyone!  I have removed the special announcement.  I found out on good authority that cell phone numbers were NOT going public this month.   However, if you would like to still register your cell phone number into the DO NOT CALL registry,  you can still do so at 888-382-1222. 

I hope you enjoy this weeks blog about “telemarketers”!!!!!!!!!!!!

Something’s very wrong I tell you!  Something’s very wrong!  So I guess there was an internet rumor flying about professing that  this month our cell phone numbers are going public.  And I guess that means sales people from all over the planet can now find me anywhere at anytime!  It wasn’t bad enough when they would call the house phone during our family’s dinner time.  It wasn’t bad enough when they would call in the middle of some favorite, televised sporting event or movie.  It wasn’t bad enough when I was outdoors working the property and sprinted back into the house hurdling over kids toys, vacuum cleaners, sleeping dogs and slippery tiled floors to get to the phone before I missed it.  Nooooo!!!!!!  Now these over zealous, relentless, selfish, peddlers of junk get to reach me in the car, on the beach, at the office, on vacation and on the golf course.

 Today, we use our cell phones for so much more than simply talking.  We can text each other, take pictures, surf the internet, listen to music, play video games and even watch movies.  There’s no doubt that cell phones are a huge part of our society now and greatly enhance our quality of life.  If you’re stuck on the road late at night, help is just a phone call away.  If you’re trying to track down the whereabouts of your typical teenager, you can now find them on those infamous Friday nights (How the heck did our parents raise children without cell phone access?)  If you have to stop and pick up a gallon of milk on the way home from the office,  that information is just a text message away. 

 As wonderful as these electronic marvels can be,  when they are carelessly placed into the hands of dimwitted, clueless morons,  they too often create a situation filled with angst and frustration.  You know what I’m talking about!  Remember the last time you were in the airplane taxiing down the runway for takeoff,  and the misfit business traveler sitting next to you continued her phone call despite warnings from the captain that “all electronic devices must be turned off and stored away” – which is pilot code for “turn them off  NOW or we will all crash and burn you idiot”.  How about the guy I saw this morning travelling seventy five miles an hour down a major interstate while using both of his hands to send a text message; leaving me wondering how in good God’s name he was steering the speeding minivan with his two smiling children in the back seat.

 I can just imagine the trouble that this new service is going to get me in.  I’ll be on the cell phone late some night travelling home from the office.  I’ll be talking to my boss about some stupid work issue that could have easily been handled in the morning. We’ll be waiting for another work colleague to join the call and to patch him in for a three-way conference.  Suddenly,   my phone will beep and I’ll quickly click over to link in my equally frustrated work colleague.  But instead of him,  it’s the same knucklehead sales person who left me seventy three voicemails in the last two weeks about some new product that if massaged into my scalp will actually replace my now glossy shine with a full head of thick and vibrant hair.   As I begin my endless barrage of verbal insults on this numbskull peddler of junk,  calling him every nasty name I can think of,  I realize that I have inadvertently clicked back over to my now astounded boss waiting on the other line.   I hate technology!!  Something’s very wrong I tell you!  Something’s very wrong!

Something’s very wrong I tell you! Something’s very wrong! Why is it that I find myself constantly in a situation where some old acquaintance excitedly approaches me and says “Hey Tom! Long time no see! How the heck are you?”. And as I stare into this person’s eyes trying to figure out who the hell he could possibly be, I somehow manage to deliver an Oscar winning performance by providing some animated and emotional response such as “Oh my God I can’t believe it’s you, oh my God, oh my God!”. Now using God three times in one sentence should be a dead give away to most people that I simply have no idea who they are.

I don’t get it!! Why can’t I just inform this overly enthusiastic stranger that I am clueless to who he is? Am I afraid to hurt his feelings and tell him that he obviously had no meaningful impact on my life and I found him, his personality, and our past relationships trivial and incredibly easy to forget? Perhaps I am afraid to embarrass myself and inform him that a large percentage of my brain cells have in fact been fried for several years now and while I continue to feed and bath myself, I’m just not good for much more than that? Why do I find it so much easier to engage this innocent victim in a skillful game of cat and mouse praying that he drops a clue – any clue at all – that triggers some ancient stored memory in this thick skull of mine?

This morning while I was wandering the aisles of Home Depot searching for yet one more tool that I really don’t need – but just want – I was approached by some bright eyed and really happy man who I apparently knew some 20 plus years ago. I figured that much out when he said “Geez, what’s it been 20 years?”. Prompting my incredibly intelligent response of “Wow. Has it been that long?”. While he continued to ask me very specific questions providing me with a detailed timeline of MY life, he gave me nothing – nadda – zippo – about HIS life. Not only did he refuse to help me out intellectually, he provided no visual or physical support either. Bald and beer bellied with bright white, individual hairs hanging from all the holes in his nose, he looked like every other guy in aisle number seven. I’m cursed as I seem to be the only person I know that hasn’t aged at all. Everyone around me looks SO much older than they did 20 years ago. What do they all expect from me? If they can’t take care of themselves, that shouldn’t become my problem.

Anxiously searching for anything at all that can help me, I ask this guy “So what’s new with you?”. And his response after not seeing or talking to me for 20 years was “Not much!”. Not much? How the hell can not much happen in his life over a 20 year span? Now I know why this loser is so easy to forget! We eventually said our pleasant good byes and continued to pass each other several more times in other aisles. I creatively pretended to be in deep thought reading the labels from various products desperately trying to avoid a sequel conversation. Finally, this stranger drifted off once again into my past.

Suddenly, my day began to look brighter. As I stood in the checkout line, I recognized an old girlfriend that I had very seriously dated in college but haven’t seen since. We had something incredibly special and intimate back then. I gently tapped her on the shoulder to surprise her with a pleasant hello. She responded with “Oh my God I can’t believe it’s you, oh my God, oh my God!”. Something’s very wrong I tell you! Something’s very wrong!

Something’s very wrong I tell you! Something’s very wrong! Who is the most annoying, self centered, egotistical and selfish group of people on the planet? Actually, there are two groups who fall smack dab into that category, but for reasons I can’t get into, I can only write about one. And the one group I’m going to talk about doesn’t take top prize either, but comes in a distant second place. Now before we go any further let’s better understand the qualifications for this distinguished honor. These misfits are not just from the United States. Every year they arrive in droves from all the corners of the globe. They are completely, self absorbed knuckleheads who place their materialistic needs far above the human respect of all others. They flash their money in your faces and expect you to react. They raise their voices and expect you to jump. They pound their fists and expect you to improve. They quickly snap their head in an upward tilt and expect you to run. They don’t understand the words ‘Thank you’ and ‘Please’ – – – and if by some awkward chance they actually do use those words, then they are delivered with insincerity and coldness. So have you figured out who this rude, inconsiderate group of numbskulls is? Let me give you just one more clue then. They are usually dressed in bathing suits or shorts; sandals; tee shirts with stupid sayings; and sunglasses. That’s right! I’m talking about VACATIONERS!

My family recently enjoyed an incredible vacation in a tropical island resort. But my week in this paradise was constantly interrupted with morons who obviously felt like they were the ONLY people vacationing there and that the entire staff of hundreds of hard working, proud people, were there to serve them – – and only them. So there I was anxiously waiting for the clerk at the front desk to complete our registration, so we could drop into our ocean view rooms after a long and bumpy flight. Then along came Mickey the Dunce. He was strutting with determination down the cool, marble tiled, floor adorned in nothing more than his black Speedo, which was concealed mostly by his hairless, beer belly. Lacking a shirt and obvious need for a brassiere, his naked, man-boobs were bouncing in an opposing synchronization with the clicking of his bright red flip flops. Clearly, this was a man on a mission, who was only to be briefly annoyed by the long row of wicker, ceiling fans blowing his comb-over hairdo to the opposite side. Ignoring the fact that I was in mid-sentence with the clerk, he abruptly bellies up (literally) to the countertop, slams his flat hand on the glass top, and demands that more towels be brought to the hot tub. Okay! First of all, that’s one hot tub that I won’t be enjoying this week. Secondly, not only was this flaming idiot blind to the long line of vacationers behind him, but he treated that gentle and frightened young Jamaican lady behind the counter with inferiority and disdain. Before I could come to her rescue, a supervisor took immediate care of the unhappy buffoon in a professional, courteous and prompt manner – as though she had done it one hundred times that day. I turned to the slightly embarrassed clerk and told her that “not all Americans behave like that!”. While she acknowledged me, she didn’t look very convinced.

The next day we were enjoying an assortment of food from a buffet luncheon that was set up on the beach. As we stood in line for a refill of our beverages, two young ladies immersed in a conversation simply moved to the front of the line as though the rest of us did not exist. When the gentleman they cut in front of said something to them, they responded with a hard Asian accent, that they “No speak English”. Of course, that was until I jumped in and said, “Oh really? I heard you speaking perfect English to each other on the beach this morning”. Uninhibited by the revelation, they simply smiled, walked away and joined a different line on the opposite side of us. But the crème de la crème of all Idiots large and small in this category, was the brainless, self centered, ignoramus and his small group of muscle head followers, who flatly refused to stop playing beach volleyball during a beautiful sunset, shore side wedding – – causing a lovely young bride to break down in sobbing tears on what should have been the happiest day of her life! Something’s very wrong I tell you! Something’s very wrong! .

Something’s very wrong I tell you! Something’s very wrong! If “one person’s junk is another person’s treasure”, then why the heck does that other person act with such disrespect and callous when they show up at my first, annual Yard Sale? I don’t get it! These cellar jewels; these garage diamonds; these back of the closet nuggets; that I’m trying to get good money for – before I make that long trip to the town dump – should be treated with high regard and exuberance. Instead, I’m surrounded by dozens of funny looking strangers, some who actually frighten me, slothfully roaming my property making me feel as though my priceless possessions and family heirlooms aren’t worth the bobble head, velvet dog that adorns the dashboard of their 18 year old, red, pick up truck.

It all started with that classified advertisement that I placed in the local newspaper a few days before, highlighting all of the wonderful items for sale. Clothing, children’s toys, hand tools, power tools, furniture, books, jewelry and so much more. Good gosh, it was like the grand opening of a veritable Wal-Mart, right here in my own home town. There was no doubt in my mind. My robust inventory would be wiped out in minutes and I would be left holding a wad of cash so thick that I would need to wrap it with one of those oversize bungee cords I was selling on table # 9 for 50 cents! The long hours of work cleaning the house; sorting through the products; organizing them; moving them; and applying price tags would certainly pay off – and pay off big!

Well obviously, people who attend yard sales have great difficulty taking instructions. The advertisement said it began on Saturday at 8:00AM. One man however, somehow interpreted that as Friday night at 8:00 PM. When I politely told him to come back tomorrow, he barraged me with question after question on products and prices, and then begged me if he could just walk through the house now to take a look at the “treasures” as he was going to be out of town tomorrow on business. After a few more minutes, I helped him to understand that “NO” really does in fact, mean “NO”. I woke the next morning bright and early, with visions of a new 24 foot, cabin cruiser floating in my mind. We had only a couple of hours to prepare the driveway for our spectacular grand opening! We needed to work hard and fast. Time was of the essence.

As I briskly turned the sharp corner exiting my garage carrying a stack of 3 boxes for table number 17, I was shaken to find “el Jerko” – the idiot from last night – back in my driveway – gazing at me like he had just won the Lotto.  It was 6:30 in the morning! Obviously, this dimwit is shopping yard sales to find a good deal on a wrist watch. It wasn’t long into the morning before my property resembled the local shopping mall during the week of Christmas. Did I say 24 foot cabin cruiser. Perhaps 30 foot is more my style! But suddenly, my elated fantasizing was interrupted with loud horns. Apparently, some of my neighbors were having challenges navigating their vehicles up the street as many of my customers decided to park smack-dab in the middle of the street, or up and over on my neighbors newly planted lawns. These same misfit customers believed that my wives award winning flower garden would be better served as a short cut to the tables located near the top of the driveway.

One lady, who brought her 5 children along, ages 2 to 9, decided that she needed to use my bathroom, and without permission, but with complete boldness walked through my front door to do just that. Of course, I never knew this until later. While standing in the driveway, her 5 year old asked her if he could go potty and she told him “it was the second door on the left and be sure to jiggle the handle”. Another gentleman, who drove up in a new Mercedes convertible, had managed to push my buttons like no one else that day. He was on a mission to get any item – and as many items – for no more than 10 cents of my asking price. If he said “I’ll give you – – -“ one more time, I was going to “give him” and his new Mercedes leather upholstery, a wheelbarrow full of beaten down, trampled, award winning flowers. I never wanted a boat anyway!! Something’s very wrong I tell you! Something’s very wrong!

CUL8R,

Tom

Something’s very wrong I tell you!  Something’s very wrong!  Why is it that even when I go to worship on Sundays,  I still manage to attract – like ants on candy – that numbskull adult who is oblivious to the surroundings – even when those surroundings are serene, reflective and peaceful. I admit that I wasn’t in the greatest mood that evening.  It was a tough day on the Gomes plantation as my day started quite early working in the yard.  I laid more than twelve yards of bark mulch,  spread some loam,  laid down some grass seed and weeded all the planting areas.  So when my lovely bride approached me at 3:00Pm and suggested we go to the 4:00PM mass,   well,  I guess you could say I wasn’t feeling quite as holy as I should have.  None the less,  we arrived sharply at 4:00.  I was cherishing the opportunity to be able to sit down for a bit,  relax, and rest this weary, beaten down body of mine.

As the mass began, I remember feeling fortunate that we were not pushed into the middle of the pew and shoulder squeezed with some overweight, heavy breathing,  strangers.  And it got better,  Smelly Nellie was no where near me this week.  I saw her sitting on the complete opposite side of the church.  Smelly Nellie,  as only I called her,  was an elderly woman who I believe was approaching 140 years of age, give or take a decade.  Every week Smelly Nellie managed to sit directly in front of me.  She would wear the only bright red dress she ever owned and her blue hair would be typically covered with a different hat every week.  I would always worry about the Smelly Nellie hats as they were just so damn big that any unexpected, heavy wind would be certain to blow Smelly Nellie clear into the next county.  But it wasn’t Nell’s wardrobe that earned her the nickname.  It was the fact that she must have bathed in some cheap perfume as some type of  “Re-Baptismal” ritual every week.  If anyone ever lit a match next to her,  we would all be goners for sure!  But this week,  for the first time in a long time,  Smelly Nellie was no where near my olfactory senses.  Things were looking up!

Until of course,  the Baby Devil arrived.  He arrived inconspicuously in the body of a pudgy and adorable 18 month old baby who sat directly behind us.  As  his little fingers touched my back and neck on several occasions,  we turned around and were captivated by his smile and incredibly pleasant personality.    He hypnotized everyone around him into a false sense of serenity.  But when the mass began with the entire congregation harmonizing their responses, and singing gospel hymns,  the horns quickly began to protrude from the devils forehead.  The exorcism had begun.  His screams made you grit your teeth and his screeches forced you to clinch the muscles in your neck.  He didn’t stop.  He was relentless.  He truly had to be the devil as no normal little infant body could possibly possess that much energy and power.  Certainly,  someone had to stop this sacrilege!  The priest?  The ushers?  The choir?  The parents?

The parents?  What happened to the parents?  Obviously the baby devil must have sucked their brains out of their skulls.  What else could possibly explain their oblivious and continuous smile throughout this painful ordeal?  What else could possibly explain why two very normal looking parents wouldn’t simply remove the child from the church after the first 10 minutes or so?  What else could possibly explain their complete lack of regard for every other person in the building?  The only explanation for adults behaving in such an irresponsible manner simply has to be brain-sucking.  What else could it possibly be?  Here’s only hoping that Smelly Nellie saves me a seat behind her next week.  Something’s very wrong I tell you!  Something’s very wrong!

CUL8R

Tom

Hello everyone!

Well, you asked for it and now you got it!  My greatest thanks to all of you who have read my book and taken the time to send me your thoughts.  I’m humbled by your responses. 

Many of you have asked for a weekly column where we can share stories, frustrations and observations.  While it’s taken me a while to figure out this techno-crap future of blogging, tweeting, and texting – the column is finally here.  But  a weekly blog is just not likely as I do have a life to live – however,  I will do my best to make it as frequent as possible. 

 What will I write about?  Just about everything that bothers me, and that inventory is simply unlimited!  Anything from current events in the media; to my last road rage incident; to the idiot who parks in a handicap parking spot; to the wildly screaming infant who sat in the pew behind me during last weeks church celebration.  I’m surrounded by idiots,  buffoons and knuckleheads, so finding something to vent about shouldn’t be a problem at all.  Something’s very wrong I tell you!  Something’s very wrong!

And of course, it’s no fun blogging by yourself,  so put in your own 2 cents and comment back!  And if you’re too coward to do that,  then forward the blog along to a friend who will!

CUL8R,

Tom